


Death, Destruction, and other Common Side-Effects

by OrangeOctopi7



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sea Grunks, but nothing graphic, some blood, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeOctopi7/pseuds/OrangeOctopi7
Summary: While exploring an uncharted island, Ford and Stan find a cursed sword. Can they figure out how it works? Do they want to? Oh who are we kidding, of course they want to!But will it bring some painful insecurities back to the surface? Oh who are we kidding, of course it will!





	Death, Destruction, and other Common Side-Effects

“When I agreed to come on this voyage with you, I was expecting a lot more beaches, babes, and treasure.” Stanley teased.

 

“There's a beach right there,” Stanford pointed over his shoulder, “have at it.”

 

“It's raining and it's freezing out here!” Stan protested.

 

“It's barely drizzling, and 55 Fahrenheit is practically balmy compared to the sleet we've been getting on the Stan’o'war this week. The islands here are geothermally active, that raises the local temperature.”

 

“Geothermal. Doesn't that mean like, hot springs and stuff?”

 

“Possibly, but that's not what we're here for.”

 

“Speak for yourself.”

 

Ford rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored his brother's comment. “Supposedly this island was home to Viking berserkers.”

 

“And berserkers were what? Crazy people?”

 

“Sort of. They were supposedly invincible warriors. They were fearless and possessed inhuman strength. And yeah, they acted pretty crazy. Most historians today think they did it just by getting raging drunk and high, but I think magic was involved. Vikings were already always drunk and high. What made berserkers so special?”

 

“Alright, ya got me curious.” Stan admitted. “So what're we looking for?”

 

“Oh, old carvings, ruins, magical residue. Anything that could give us a clue what the berserkers used.” The old researcher pulled out his weirdometer (he'd stopped fighting Stan on the name two weeks ago) and checked the ambient magic levels. 

 

Visibility in the rain was low, and the weirdometer wasn't picking up much, so their search took quite a while. They were basically on top of the ruins when they found them. Mostly there were stones scattered about, either cracked paving stones or the remains of a stone wall that had fallen in, and each one was more than half-way covered in moss. A few lower walls were still standing, but for the most part, all remains of human civilization were strewn across the ground. 

 

Stan pulled out the small digital camera the kids had sent them. It was just a simple point-and-shoot. He couldn’t get the hang of much else. “With all the fog and the old rocks, this place looks like something out of a Lord of the Rings movie.”

 

Ford wasn’t so concerned with what the place looked like now. He was busy trying to piece together what this place looked like when it was still standing. Something nagged at him. There were too many stones. Viking villages were typically built out of wood, with perhaps a few stone walls for defense, or a stone foundation for more important buildings, with a few stone memorials and the like. All these fallen stone walls seemed to point to another culture. But it would be hard to know for sure unless he found some more evidence: pottery, carvings, writing if he was lucky. Such things rarely survived on the surface. Luckily, he had an easy way to sneak a peek below the fallen rocks and carpet of moss.

 

Earth’s current ground-penetrating imagery technology was somewhat lacking. Ford could still remember his early days as a researcher, when he’d pulled an enormous sledge of LIDAR equipment around to find molemen burrows. Things had advanced a lot since then, but it still didn’t hold a candle to the subsurface sweepers he’d picked up in Dimension 75&\\. He had one installed into his watch, which he activated now. Although he couldn’t see anything, he knew spectrographic rays were radiating out from his watch. He circled the ruins, letting his watch gather data as the rays bounded back as they reflected off different elements underground. After a couple of laps, Ford had a pretty good model of what was lying beneath their feet. And what he found was better than he could have hoped.

 

“Stanley!” He called out to his brother excitedly, “There’s an underground chamber buried under this rubble!” He pointed to a particularly large pile of stones, the remains of a large building wall.

 

“Buried treasure?” Stan asked hopefully.

 

“I’d say there’s a good chance.”

 

“Well, what are we waiting for? Start hauling rocks!”

 

Their excited energy helped them to move the first few rocks quickly, but their enthusiasm waned as the damp weather and hard labor sapped their strength.

 

“This’d better be some really great treasure.” Stan grunted as he sat down and took a breather.

 

“Well, my initial scans didn’t turn up many precious metals.” Ford admitted. 

 

“What!?  _ Now _ you tell me?”

 

“But there did appear to be some silver, at least. And intact art and stoneware could be even more valuable.”

 

Stan rolled his eyes, but got up to help Ford roll away a particularly large rock anyway. He heard Ford gasp when they found an opening underneath, and once the stone was rolled clear, it looked like there was room for them to slide into it.

 

“Secret passage!” Ford said in awe, with a crooked grin on his face and an adventurous glint in his eyes. Suddenly he was twelve years old again, and that was what made it worth it to Stan. As much as the old con man loved treasure and babes, seeing his brother drop the serious scientist persona and just have fun was enough that he really didn’t care that much if they didn’t find any treasure. 

 

Ford slid in first, since he was still considerably scrawnier than Stan, and helped clear away a couple more rocks without collapsing the tunnel. Next Stan shimmied his way down. As they followed the tunnel, it opened up quickly, giving them both room to stand up straight. They shone their lights along the walls, revealing a few carvings accompanied by some scratchings that might have been a strange form of writing.

 

“I was beginning to suspect this wasn’t a viking village.” Ford said as he examined the carvings. “Now I’m sure of it. Look at these scratchings. These aren’t Norse runes, they look like… ancient druidic? That seems unlikely, we’re too far north…” He continued to mutter to himself as he took out some instruments, trying to identify the writing.

 

Stan knew he wasn’t going to get a word out of his brother until those scratches were deciphered, so he contented himself with trying to figure out the pictures carved into the wall instead. It looked like some sort of battle scene. Honestly, it was practically set up like a comic book. In the first panel, it looked like vikings were raiding the original islanders. In the next panel the villagers were fighting back. Then something that kinda looked like viking monsters beat the villagers; maybe those were the berserkers Ford had mentioned earlier. The following panel depicted someone getting a sword from some sort of eight-winged bird monster. Stan couldn’t really make that one out. Next, a single swordsman with the special sky sword fought back all the vikings. The last panel Stan could see depicted the swordsman attacking the villagers. The story probably continued after that, but the carvings were buried beneath the collapsed part of the tunnel, where the brothers had entered in. 

 

“Well, it’s certainly  _ related  _ to druidic, at least.” Ford said finally, signaling that he was done struggling with the scratches.

 

“You gave up quickly.” Stan commented.

 

“I was able to translate enough.” Ford said defensively, “Just a lot about death and destruction and a cursed sword.”

 

“Uh-huh. Sounds like something sane people would take as a sign to turn back.”

 

They stared at each other for a beat before they burst out laughing, and followed the tunnel on to the main chamber.

 

The walls of the main chamber were lined with many weapons, and although most of them had rotted and rusted away, they could still make out axes and shields and spears and swords. There was one sword, however, untouched by rust or rot. It glinted at them when they shined their lights on it. The blade itself was long and slender, but simple. The hilt of silver was intricately worked to look like wings. It sat on a pedestal in the center of the room, clearly a place of honor.

 

“Gonna go out on a limb and say that’s the cursed sword.” Stan quipped.

 

“Seems like a safe bet.” Ford nodded. He pulled out his weirdometer, but even when he held the thing less than an inch away from the sword, it didn’t register anything other than the normal background magic. He frowned and recited a few counter-curses. Still nothing. “It appears to be a latent curse. A particular action or phrase will activate it.”

 

“Like what?” His brother asked.

 

“I'm not sure. We'll have to bring it back to the Stan'o'war for study.”

 

“Yeah, I'm not about to grab the cursed sword,  _ especially _ if we have no idea how the curse activates.” Stan said flatly.

 

Ford smirked and fiddled with his high-tech watch a bit more. A faint beam of white light shot out and enveloped the blade. The old researcher raised his arm, and the blade raised with it. He arched an eyebrow, looking to see if his brother was impressed.

 

“What!?” Stan cried indignantly, “You had that the whole time, and we spent over an hour moving rocks!?”

 

“We'll, this mobile gravity disru--” Ford began to explain, when the sword suddenly clattered to the ground. “Unfortunately  _ that  _ has a tendency to happen. This mobile gravity disruptor goes on the fritz without warning.”

 

Stan nodded. Not really something you wanted to happen when you were moving large rocks. “Why don't you fix it? Something like that’d be really useful.”

 

“I haven't had time.” Ford said simply. “I've been busy.”

 

“With what?” Stan asked curiously.

 

“Spending time with you.”

 

Stanley froze in his tracks. Ford had just said, however indirectly, that he valued their time together over time spent on some important science work. And that hadn't happened since… Stan could barely remember when. Maybe middle school? Maybe earlier?

 

Ford noticed Stan's pause and turned to ask if he was ok. The old conman quickly laughed it off and punched his brother's shoulder. “Quit being such a sap, Poindexter.”

 

As they made their way back, the gravity disruptor gave out many more times. 

 

“You don’t think maybe dropping it on the ground this much is gonna activate the curse, do you?” Stan asked nervously.

 

“Hmmm…” Ford looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, I think it would’ve already activated by now.

* * *

 

When they finally got the sword back to the Stan’o’war, Ford immediately brought out his most sensitive instruments, determined to unlock the cursed blade’s secrets. He used every magical sensor he had, but each one barely registered anything more than the usual magic they had on board. He tried casting a few spells he’d picked up over the years on it, but each one did nothing more or less than what they were supposed to do. If the sword was some sort of magical dampener, it would’ve stopped their effects. He even poked it with a stick and dropped a dead fish on it. The sword remained utterly unremarkable. 

 

“Hmmm….” He stared down the sword, as though daring it to reveal its secrets. He reached a hand out to touch it.

 

Stan noticed his movement from the galley. “Ford, don’t touch the supposedly cursed sword with your bare hands.”

 

Ford pulled on a glove.

 

“Ford, don’t touch the supposedly cursed sword.”

 

The old researcher pretended not to hear his brother and grabbed the sword anyway. The two old men tensed for a moment, anticipating the curse.

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Huh. Guess we dropped it too many times.” Stan shrugged.

 

“I doubt that.” Ford picked the sword up and started looking it over with a hand-lense. “There could be a number of reasons the curse isn’t activating. The curse may have been broken long before we got here, or it may have just been a story made up by the locals to scare away the vikings. I’m inclined to think the magic simply faded away over time.”

 

“Or maybe someone got here before us and took the real cursed sword, and we got left with the fake.” Stan suggested. “Or it’s a decoy, and the real cursed sword is still back in that tunnel.”

 

“Well, at least it  _ looks _ really cool.” Ford said with a small grin, lifting the sword off the workbench. “Here, take a picture, the kids will love it.”

 

Stan chuckled. “Yeah, alright.” He pulled out his camera again. “Ok, ready.”

 

“Do I look cool?” Ford posed, raising the blade like he was ready to strike.

 

Stan snorted. “You look like a huge nerd, like always.” He snapped a picture.

 

They both laughed, but in a split second, Ford's expression changed to one of terror. Stan didn't even have time to ask him what was wrong before his expression changed again to perfectly, erielly blank.

 

In that moment, Stan knew something was wrong. He got his guard up just in time. Ford lunged forward with the sword, his face remaining expressionless. If Stan hadn't been ready for it,he surely would've been stabbed through the heart. Luckily, he  _ had _ expected  _ something  _ to happen, and jumped out of the way just in time.

 

“Ford, can you hear me!?” He asked frantically, dodging another strike from the sword. Nothing. “Stanford,  _ snap out of it _ !” 

 

Stan grabbed the first improvised weapon he could: a large melting pot from the kitchen sink. He parried against his unexpected foe as best as he could, but it was doing him about as much good as a wooden shield against a lumberjack.

 

“Whatever you are, let my brother go, ya hear me?” He demanded. But whatever had taken control of his brother's body made no sign of hearing him. Not a change in expression, not a hesitation in movement, not even a single twitch. It was like Ford had been replaced with a swashbuckling robot. Stan didn't know much about sword fighting, but he could see whatever had come over Ford had made him an expert.

 

So, trying to get to his brother obviously wasn't working, and his cooking pot shield was going to be reduced to copper shards in another blow or two. Stan’s first instinct was to go for the handgun they kept hidden behind a panel in the wall next to their hammocks, but no. Whatever this was, it was using Ford, and the last thing Stan wanted was to seriously harm his brother. Mildly hurt, he could deal with. Stan needed to figure out a way to restrain and disarm him. And the old con man knew his best bet was lying on the deck above them.

* * *

  
  
  


Ford's laughter stopped short when he felt an all-too-familiar disconnect between his mind and his body. He wanted to scream, he wanted to tell Stan to run, but it was too late. He'd already lost control, and struggle as he might, he couldn't seem to take his body back.

 

When Ford had willingly relinquished control to Bill, his mental ghost, his astral projection, whatever you wanted to call it, had been free to roam about and generally behaved as he would if he had a body. When he'd learned of Bill’s treachery and the demon had taken control by force, Ford's mind had blacked out. He would awake when it was over with no recollection of what had happened and only bloody hands and tantalizing codes left for him to piece it together. 

 

This was different. His mind was awake and aware of everything going on around him, but trapped, unable to leave his uncooperative body. He was aware of Stan narrowly avoiding the first attack and calling out to him. Of his body effortlessly and fluidly following up with another strike, which Stan clumsily parried with a copper pot. It wasn't like any possession he'd known before. There was none of Bill's mocking or laughter or insanity. The sword was empty and emotionless. There was no thought, as far as Ford could tell. It was simply to attack until its target was dead.

 

The sword seemed to have the neurological patterns of a master swordsman ingrained into it, and could transfer that into its host’s nerves. Ford was relieved and amazed that Stan could hold his own against it so well. His brother was a survivor, that was certain. But Stan's copper pot was starting to look more like a flimsy piece of scrap, and would soon be cornered. Ford watched helplessly as Stan's eyes flicked around the room, obviously looking for his best escape route. Ford saw him glance at the wall where they both knew a gun was hidden for just such an emergency. He'd kinda hoped Stan would fight a little longer before he resorted to that.

 

But no, Stan obviously had something else in mind. He faked left and then dove right between Ford's feet, nearly knocking his brother over. The sword regained balance quickly though, whipping around and slashing at Stan. The old conman moved faster than his size or age would normally allow, but death was a good motivator. Instead of slashing through his spine, the blade ripped through his pants and sliced across his buttocks. Stanley yelped in pain, but he didn't slow down for a second. He scampered right up the stairs on to the deck.

 

Stanford wondered what his brother was planning. There were less places to hide on deck, and it was more open, making it easier to maneuver a swinging sword. But it was also icy and slippery up there. Stan had been sailing on the Stan’o’war long enough to know how to keep his footing in such conditions; was he hoping Ford wouldn't be able to keep his balance if he was being controlled? It seemed like a long shot.

 

His body leapt up the stairs in pursuit of his brother. It was bitterly cold without his coat on, but with the sword controlling him, he didn't even shiver. Another lunge, which Stan barely blocked. The pot sapped under the latest blow. Stanley threw the remaining handle straight at Ford's head. The sword batted it away easily, but it was just the momentary distraction Stan needed. He grabbed the net lying on the deck and threw it over Ford. The net was large and heavy, so Stan throwing it on his own wasn't quite as effective as he'd hoped, but at least it tangled up Ford's arm holding the sword. 

 

The net was made of enchanted titanium, specifically designed to hold against struggling paranormal beasts with various claws, teeth, and magical abilities. And yet the cursed sword could still cut through it! Albeit slowly. Slowly enough that Stan was able to tackle his brother to the ground. He stepped painfully on Ford's hand and kicked the sword out of his grasp.

 

Stanford gasped as he felt the connection break and his mind regained control of his body. He started to shiver uncontrollably, as though making up for lost time.

 

“Ford?” Stan asked uncertainty above him. Ford couldn't form words quite yet, so he just nodded mutely. That was good enough for Stan. He got off of his brother's back and pulled him into a hug. Ford hugged back tightly.

 

“You ok?” Stanley asked. Ford nodded again. Stan laughed shakily “You're a bad liar. Come on, let's get you inside.”

 

Ford wanted tell Stan that he  _ was _ fine, thank you very much, and Stanley was the one who needed medical attention, what with blood dripping down his ripped pants, but he couldn't get the words out. When they got below deck,the only words he could muster were a stuttering “Ne-hever a-gain… nev-v-v-er a-hah-aga-hen…”

 

“It’s ok.” Stan rubbed his back comfortingly. “It  _ won't _ happen again. And we both got out of it more or less in one piece, so don't beat yourself up about it. I know that wasn't you calling the shots back there.”

 

Stanford shook his head. That wasn't what was bothering him. He tried to steady his breathing. To Stanley's credit, he waited patiently until his brother could speak properly.

 

“I swore I-I’d never let it h-happen again.” The old scientist choked out after a couple of deep breaths.

 

Stan didn't get what “it” Ford was talking about for a few seconds, until he remembered this wasn't the first time some crazy magic thing had taken his brother's body for a joy-ride.

 

“Listen, this isn't like Bill, you didn't think the sword was actually cursed.” the old con man reassured his brother.

 

“I didn't think Bill was going to use me to bring about the end of the world either.” The old scientist mumbled.

 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Ford, there is a huge difference between playing with a sword you already tested for magic and telling a mysterious otherworldly dream triangle he can take control of your body any time he wants.”

 

Ford sighed, his moment of vulnerability over. “It doesn't matter. I'm fine, really. Let me bandage you up before you bleed all over the cabin.”

 

A smirk spread across Stan’s face. “I thought you said 'You can't run around the Stan’o'war with no pants on’?”

 

“You're not going to be running around, you'll be receiving medical attention, you knucklehead.”

 

Ford made his brother lay on his stomach while the old researcher got out the first-aid kit and examined the gash running perpendicular to Stan's butt crack.

 

“How bad is it?” Stan asked as his brother cleaned the wound.

 

“Let's just say you're lucky you've got so much padding back here.” Ford said flippantly.

 

“Ignoring that.” Stan grunted.

 

“It's not an insult. It didn't hit any major arteries or joints because they're all buried under a layer of fat. Without that, it's a safe bet it would've cut through your pelvis. Now you won't be able to sit for a few days, but with some cellular-regeneration optimizing salv from Dimension 40• you should be back on your butt within a week.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’re gonna keep quiet about this to the kids?”

 

It was Ford’s turn to smirk. “Not on your life.”

 

* * *

  
  


Stanley had known Stanford was more shaken up by the cursed sword than the old researcher would admit. But Stan also knew that trying to pester him about it when he wasn’t willing to talk would only make it worse. No, Stan would have to wait for another moment of vulnerability, but he had a hunch he wouldn’t have to wait long. 

 

Both of them had nightmares more often than was probably healthy, but considering neither of them really opened up unless they were scared and/or tired enough, Stan wasn’t about to see a doctor about it. 

 

With how Ford had clamped down on his emotions earlier, Stan was expecting him to have particularly bad nightmares tonight. The old con man laid in his hammock, listening to his brother breathing in the hammock above him. It was easy to tell when Ford was having a nightmare. Normally the guy slept like a log: unmoving and silent. When Ford had a nightmare he shifted around in his sleep, and his breathing became uneven and ragged. Stan had been waiting a little under an hour when he heard the tell-tale signs. 

 

He got up with some difficulty; hammocks really weren’t made for sleeping on your stomach. Maybe Stan would switch to sleeping on the kitchen table until his butt healed. 

 

Stan woke his brother as gently as he could, pushing the hammock back and forth against the rhythm of the rocking boat. Ford still bolted awake gasping like a freshly caught fish. 

 

“‘Sokay, it’s me.” Stan said comfortingly, reaching out and taking Ford's hand. It was a gesture from their childhood, a way to say “I know you're hurting and I'm here for you” without having to get all mushy.

 

Ford's grip was like a vice, as though he was afraid his brother would dissolve out of his grasp. “You're alive?” He murmured.

 

“Heh, yeah, other than the slice taken outta my butt, I'm fine. You were having a nightmare.” Stan explained.

 

“Of course… of course…” Ford whispered, more to himself than to his brother.

 

“You wanna stay in bed, or go sit at the table?” Stan asked.

 

Getting up and out of bed probably  _ would  _ help him shake off the nightmare, but… “But  _ you _ can't sit.”

 

“Eh, I'll just lean on the counter or something.”

 

“Table.” Ford chose.

 

Apparently “just lean on the counter or something” actually meant making hot cocoa. Stan figured it was the best thing for the situation: just enough sugar to keep them up long enough to talk, and just enough warm milk to help them get right back to sleep afterwards.

 

Ford just held the mug at first, letting the warmth spread through his fingers. “I thought I was over this!” He groaned in frustration, “I thought I was…” his voice lowered to a hoarse whisper, “I thought I was safe.”

 

Stan smiled sadly and tried to warm his brother's spirits with a little humor. “Hate to break it to you, bro, but a voyage to the north Atlantic studying paranormal anomalies isn't exactly the safest thing you can do.”

 

“Not like that. I thought…” Ford paused as he struggled to phrase his thoughts, “I thought I didn't have to worry about being a danger to others anymore.”

 

Stan's eyes widened at this revelation. “Ford, Bill didn't…” he asked cautiously, “He didn't use you to hurt anyone, did he?”

 

Ford remained silent, watching the steam rising from his mug.

 

“I mean, obviously he messed up you and McGucket pretty bad, but I mean besides that psychological crap.”

 

“... I'm not sure…” Ford finally looked up at his brother, and his expression made it clear that unknown was what scared him most of all. “...but I think so.” He added so quietly Stan almost didn't hear him.

 

Giant gash through his butt or not, Stan sat with barely a wince beside his brother and gave him a much-needed hug. They just sat there for a while, until the steam had stopped rising from their cocoa, just keeping each other company. 

 

“D’you wanna go home?” Stan finally asked.

 

“No.” Ford answered quietly, “Of course not.”

 

“Good.” Stan fixed his brother with a determined stare. “I can tell ya two things for sure: Bill ain't gonna make you do anything ever again, and that sword ain't gonna make you do anything ever again, 'cuz I kicked it overboard. As for the future, I can't tell you nothing'll ever hijack your body again, 'cuz honestly you seem to attract that crap, but I  _ can _ tell you that if anything tries it, I'm not gonna let it use you to hurt anyone, and I'll get you back to yourself as soon as I can. I promise.”

 

There was some rebellious part of Ford's brain protesting that Stan couldn't possibly make good on that promise, but he brushed such thoughts aside. Stan had proven both today and throughout their lives that he was willing and capable enough to keep his family safe. There was no reason to doubt him.

 

“I trust you.” The old researcher said simply. He felt himself falling asleep on his brother's shoulder. If he'd been a bit more awake, he might've ribbed Stan a little for crying. Instead he dozed there for a few minutes until Stan had wiped his eyes and shook his brother awake.

 

“Seriously Ford, I can't sleep sitting like this, go lie down in your hammock.”


End file.
